


After/Before

by Kogiopsis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Femslash February 2017, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9710621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kogiopsis/pseuds/Kogiopsis
Summary: Warden Tohora Mahariel fell hard for the Witch of the Wilds.  It did not end happily for either of them.(a Tumblr Femslash February prompt that got out of hand.)





	1. After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkandpaperhowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperhowl/gifts).



> My girlfriend, inkandpaperhowl, requested this pairing but accidentally sent in the prompt number adjacent to the one she wanted. As it happens, the right prompt and the wrong one make for great companion pieces.

_Live well._

Tohora finds Morrigan’s last words to her in a note on her bedside table when she wakes up, the day after the Battle of Denerim.  The page on which they’re written is jagged-edged, as if torn from a book, and sealed with a glowing circle the color of new leaves.  It’s unsigned, but Morrigan’s spiky hand is unmistakable, and besides - it only confirms what Tohora already knew, what she has known from the moment she looked down at the Archdemon’s unmoving head and realized she hadn’t died with it.

Her lover lied to her, and left anyway.

She folds the note again and tucks it into her breastband, cool and dry against her skin.  Numbly, she dresses.  In the corner her Grey Warden armor gleams on a stand, scrubbed of the darkspawn blood that had stained it just the day before.  She buckles it on mechanically; today is Alistair’s coronation, and if she must be watched by the _shemlen_ , she wants them to remember who it was that saved them.

Only after the ceremony is over, when Alistair elbows her and whispers his thanks that she put up with it all, does Tohora realize that she barely heard it.  She was preoccupied with scanning the crowd, looking for dark hair and sharp golden eyes, or even just an unusually attentive raven at the great hall’s high windows - anything, anything at all of Morrigan.  At every flash of purple from a noblewoman’s dress she twitches and half-turns; at a snatch of low, wry voice she takes a step forward; but every time it’s a stranger, not her swamp witch.

The crowd, the disappointment, the aching hollowness at her center are all too much.  She shoulders her way through the assembled nobles, ignoring Alistair’s attempt to catch her elbow, and makes for the door.  As she reaches it, another hand grasps the ornate handle, and Tohora looks up to see Zevran wearing his characteristic half-smile, though his eyes are sad.

“If you’re leaving the city, let me come with you,” he says.  “I would rather not be alone if the Crows send someone for me again, and you already know I am a good cook.”

She meets his eyes, considering for a long minute, and then nods.

* * *

Zevran, whatever else he is, is patient.  He tolerates her silence without comment, even when it stretches out over days.  They make and break their nightly camps efficiently and without even brushing up against one another.  And if he hears her sobbing into Whiri’s shoulder at night, he says nothing of it.  Tohora is grateful to him for that, as she’s grateful to him for coming with her at all, and that makes her resentful.  She doesn’t _need_ Zevran.  She doesn’t need _anyone_.

But she misses Morrigan’s warmth beside her anyway.

They’re three nights out of Denerim when she speaks at last.

“She didn’t mean it,” she murmurs.  “She never meant it.”

Zevran hums a little and turns the spit on which their night’s meal is roasting.

“I shouldn’t have- let myself-”  Tohora’s voice is harsh, but it catches, and she stops and takes a deep breath to steady herself.  “Morrigan told me from the start that she didn’t believe in lo- in romance, and I should have known-”

“In this, we rarely have a choice,” Zevran says gently.  He glances at her, holding her gaze until Tohora looks away.  “The heart wants what it wants.”

“But I _did_ choose,” Tohora insists.  “I ignored what she said because I wanted to prove her wrong.  To convince her that- for _us_ it would be different.”  

Morrigan had been an exception for her - a human who she had come to trust, even to like.  At the time, it had seemed only logical that Tohora, then, would be an exception for Morrigan.  She had envisioned them united in their distance from others, entwined in mutual support like two trees sprouted next to each other.  Dizzy with Morrigan’s kisses, languid and undone at her hands, Tohora had been so certain of their future together.

“Then you chose wrong,” Zevran says, his voice jerking her out of her wandering thoughts.  “As we all do from time to time.  That is nothing to be ashamed of.  In a battle between the head and the heart-”

“I’m not ashamed,” Tohora interjects.  “I’m angry.”  She pulls her knees against her chest and wraps her arms around her legs.  Her bare toes curl against the earth.  “With myself.  For trusting her at all.  For ever thinking that she l-”

The beginning of the word hangs in the air between them as the fire pops and the rabbit meat sizzles.

“That… she loved you?” Zevran asks softly.

Tohora can’t look at him.  She stares into the flames and nods, blinking rapidly.  Doubtless he will pity her for this - for this entire episode and the loss of composure she’s displayed.

“Oh, my dear Mahariel,” he says.  “She did.”


	2. Before

Morrigan watches, arms folded across her chest, as Arl Eamon’s knights and their attendants make camp.  They bustle about like armored ants, orderly and brisk, pitching tents and starting fires and tending their horses.  Most of the Arl’s men remained at Redcliffe, preparing themselves for the Archdemon’s attack; still, there are too many of them here for her taste.  She has pitched her own low tent even further away from the main camp than is her usual wont.

Her attention is drawn by a disturbance in the midst of the knights - ripples spread outwards, disrupting their military efficiency.  Even before a short, dark figure elbows her way out of the crowd, Morrigan knows Tohora is coming, and her lips twitch with a smile.

“ _ Fenehedis _ , I could do with less of them,” the elf says, exasperated.  “And the Arl keeps trying to talk to me about what I should do at the Landsmeet.  I  _ know _ what I’m going to do.”

Morrigan quirks an eyebrow, and Tohora answers her unspoken question.

“Execute Loghain and make Alistair king, and as fast as possible.  I don’t intend to hang around noble shems any longer than I have to.”

“Alistair, a king?”

Tohora runs one hand through her hair, sighing.  “If they won’t let me give it to Keeper Marethari.  He’ll do.”

Morrigan knows she should be stepping back, creating distance between herself and Tohora, but habit makes her reach out to push a stray curling lock behind the Warden’s pointed ears.

“I suppose we shall see,” she says in a low voice.  Tohora reaches up to cup Morrigan’s hand against her face, holding it close.  Morrigan’s pinky rests below her jaw, and she can feel the beat of Tohora’s heart there.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” the elf asks.

Morrigan inhales, closes her eyes, and feels her heart sink.  She knows better, but she lets her hand slide down to the back of Tohora’s neck anyway and leans down to claim a kiss.  It is answer enough.

* * *

Eamon’s tents, no doubt, have tall straight walls and padded cots inside, perhaps even braziers for warmth.  Morrigan’s appears rough by comparison, low-slung hide she can’t even sit up in, with another hide as thin padding over the softest patch of earth she could find.  Still, Tohora has never objected - being Dalish, she’s doubtless slept in far rougher conditions.  She crawls into the tent first, settling herself on her side under the covers, and when she looks up at Morrigan the low firelight flashes in her green eyes.  It almost distracts her from the soft smile on Tohora’s face.

The smile makes her hesitate.  This is not a good idea, sharing a bed with the Warden so close to… the end.  Neither of them can afford to be attached now, of all times.

She blames her capitulation on the night’s chill.  Any practical person would crawl into the tent alongside Tohora and share her body heat, Morrigan tells herself.  It doesn’t have to mean anything.  Nor does it mean anything that her arms fit around Tohora’s body as if they were made to be there, or that the elf’s warm breath against her collarbone sends lighting down her spine and heat into the pit of her stomach.  Meaningless, too, are the idle motions of her fingertips against Tohora’s back, tracing slow ellipses over the other woman’s shoulder blades and the dip of her spine.

Tohora presses herself closer, eliminating the last spaces between them.  Her head rests on Morrigan’s arm; stray tendrils of hair tickle Morrigan’s cheek.  As their presence warms the space under the blankets, Morrigan relaxes by increments and Tohora’s breathing slows.

“Morrigan,” she murmurs drowsily.  Morrigan hums in response.

“I’ve never…”  Tohora trails off for a moment.  “Never loved anyone… like I love you.”

The words are a sigh, soft and relaxed and thoughtless; they are a prayer, a fervent wish for response; they are half of a promise Morrigan cannot reciprocate.  In their aftermath Morrigan’s sleepy ease is gone.  She gathers herself enough to give some reply, pressing a kiss to the crown of Tohora’s head and moving her hand in a light caress down her back.  Tohora sighs again.  Perhaps she is already asleep.

For her part, Morrigan’s warm lassitude is gone.  Her skin feels cold, and her gut suddenly roils as if she were ill.  She stares at the wall of the tent and draws in long, slow breaths, but the air is full of Tohora’s pine-bark scent and it does no good.  Neither does closing her eyes, as that only enables her to concentrate fully on the places where the Warden’s body presses against hers.  Knees, thighs, one side of their hips; Tohora’s toes brush the top of Morrigan’s feet, and one arm is draped casually over Morrigan’s waist.  There is no escaping her presence, or the truth of the many ways she’s slipped into the cracks of Morrigan’s life.

When the sun rises, they will make the last push to Denerim.  Eamon and Tohora will make Alistair King, and they will be one step closer to the final stand against the Archdemon, and one step closer to Morrigan’s inevitable departure.  She will not allow another night like this, she vows - she should not have allowed this one.  But as it has already happened, there is little she can do.

When the sun rises, Tohora will be the Warden once again, marching towards the inevitable.  Until then, Morrigan will hold her lover close and wish they had met in any world but this.


End file.
